Alcohol Therapy
by Prophet of Doom
Summary: Spike carries on a lively conversation with a bottle of scotch about his problems with the Slayer.


Disclaimer: Once again, I own absolutely nothing but the bottle of scotch.

Summary: Spike carries on a lively conversation with a bottle of scotch about his problems with the Slayer. 

Timeframe: Mid Season 5, Post OoMM, Pre Crush.

Author's Note: I've noticed Spike's tendency to get rather drunk during bad times, so I figured I'd listen in on one of his rants. It was quite funny, actually. So, enjoy!

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"Project 'Stop Mass Alcohol Consumption for Spike' is now in session!" 

          The bottle of scotch fell upon the sarcophagus with a defiant '_clunk_', showing its resentment for the new project. Spike merely scowled at it. 

          "I'm done with you, my headache causing friend." He patted it affectionately, giving it an encouraging smile. "Aw, 's alright, little one. I'm sure someone else'll wanna drink you." Apparently convinced that the bottle was no longer offended, the vampire strolled over to his chair, flopping ungracefully down into the hideously green chair, pausing only to kick at the abused and rebellious television. 

          He cast an apologetic gaze towards the abandoned bottle. "Really, 'm sorry, mate. I was using you. Usin' you ta forget m' troubles with the Slayer. But tha's wrong, an' I deeply regret any pain I might'a caused you." He slumped further into his chair. "But, honestly, y'think she could be a l'il nicer, wouldn't you? I mean, 'm always helping 'er, savin' the Scoobies, fightin' the good fight, but noooo! Can't sully her virtue fraternizing with the enemy, now, can she? 'M an 'evil, disgusting thing', an' don' you forget it!" 

          He immediately shot out of his chair, beginning to pace around the crypt. "But I really 'aven't been bad, now, 'ave I? I haven't done anything evil since the chip! Well, there was that thing with Adam, but that wasn't really _evil_, as much as an act 'f desperation done by a poor, lost soul—er, yeah, that din't know what ta do with 'imself. Y'can't really blame me, can you? So, the evil part dun't really fit anymore, does it? And disgusting? I mean, I'm no one to say, seein' as how I 'aven't seem m'self for a while, but due to the response I've been getting' from the general female population, I wouldn't say I was too disgusting. And thing? Yeah, I'm I vampire, I get that, but humans are all lovely, clean beings? Like hell. The majority of 'em all are just wastes of space, more useful being bitten than livin' in the world……so I could actually be doin' them all a favor, clearin' the world of some of the more useless types, preserving the oxygen for those who deserve it……" 

          The bottle continued to look upon the amusing scene with a sort of bored disinterest. The vampire looked slightly hurt. 

          "Well, there's no use getting' cold, now! I've drunk quite enough of you!" 

          Ah, how the bottle agreed. 

          "An', s'not like getting' m'self smashed really achieves anythin', does it? I jus' end up getting' these massive, pounding headaches, kinda like the one 've got now, an' I can't get rid of 'em! I think Project SMACS---heh, smacks---is a right smart way to end my troubles! M' just not gonna drink anymore! I'll be more sober, more alert, so I can show the Slayer how good I can be! I can be a helpful, positive ally, sure to gain the respect of the Scoobies! Tha's what 'll do! No more drinks for me! Ever!"

          His rant was interrupted by two loud bangs, followed by the sound of his door crashing against the wall. He whipped around, wincing slightly at the pang in his head caused by the abrupt movement. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, his eyes focused on a decidedly unfriendly looking Slayer making her way towards him, ready to greet him with a punch to the nose. 

          "Ow! Bloody hell, Slayer, there are plenty 'f other parts on my body that deserve abuse just as much as my nose!" the quickly sobering vampire snarled, clutching at his smarting nose. 

          "Whatever, Spike. I need information. Bout a demon." 

          "Big surprise there, luv—ow!" 

          Buffy glared at him. "I'm not in the mood for your attitude, Spike. Do you know where that clan of Kripostos demons are staying?" 

          Spike's forehead furrowed in thought. "A clan of Kripostos? Here? Seems kinda unlikely, Slayer, they tend to steer clear of warm areas—ow!" He doubled over in pain from the force of Buffy's blow to his gut. 

          "You don't get to question me, Spike. Do you or don't you know anything?" 

          Spike glowered at her from his crouched position. "No." 

          Buffy merely turned on her heel and left, slamming the door of the crypt behind her. 

          Spike slowly got to his feet, scowling at the doorway she had just passed through. After a moment, his face fell into a sad look of resignation. He slowly made his way towards the sarcophagus. 

          "I need a drink." 

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Author's Note: So, yeah. Just a little ficlet (as usual), spending some quality time with our friend, the bottle of scotch. I should really name him. But never fear; he'll probably make a cameo appearance in my next story (destined to be a ficlet, since I can't seem to think of any plotlines that last for more than a few pages, now, can I?). The bottle of scotch will be back! And, reviews would be greatly appreciated. Flames will be used to set Buffy on fire, to be put out by the contents of the bottle of scotch. Bet you can guess how well that'll work out. 


End file.
